breaths of fresh air and smoke.
Imagine you are not the flower but you try to be like it. You eat it, and it intoxicates you; you feel many things, but you never not feel, as is the flower.
I bought a plane ticket from someone who I told not to tell me where it was going to; I boarded blindfolded and wearing earplugs.
Is it true that if you live your life in grandeur that you will never have to face the simple things you are scared of?
At dawn we sacrificed ourselves in the fire.
I saw a wooden figure of a large ancient animal from afar moving towards me; it was twenty times my size and had no face. The body was bold and muscular. I was brought to tears of hysterical ecstasy as it trampled me under its majestic strength. I died gloriously to its undying beauty.
The moon danced with a ravaged wild bird and a magnified human egg. I have heard that the forces of the moon control menstruation. The bird took the moon in its mouth and held it for seven million years. It was the God of birth. When it let go of the moon, the egg exploded into infinity.
A small freshwater fish still lives with the sun in its mouth.
Who am I to say something and have it mean anything? Is there anyone that I listen to? Is there anyone that will listen to me?
When I was young, I almost drowned in a mountain stream, but I reached up into beautiful light and grabbed a hand of someone who saved me. But I don’t remember the person’s name; I remember the light.
As I got older, I escaped from everything the best that I could, creating the truths that were most compatible with what I felt I could handle and understand, living in the webs of other’s truths. This lasted most of my life.
Is there any truth in living if everyone does this? I spent three years thinking about this.
If there isn’t, what difference does it make? I came upon the unknown that is unknowable. But I never really found it.
My future needs to be connected with roots in the earth. I need to see everything from all perspectives and never compromise my effort. I need to make myself many selves and travel the world achieving what I believe. I will donate all my blood tomorrow and the next day save babies. There is nothing left of who I am; I am now only what I think I should have been.
I have seen everything and been everywhere. I have died many times and let the starving eat my flesh. I don’t eat anymore; I create my own energy from the sun. I keep no friends or family; I am the root of the earth
What The Sea Saw On The Sea-saw
Give your tongue to the salted sea—remove yourself from it as it parts the wetness; pleasure the sea like this until the waves crash on top of you—until they crush you—you die while fantastically orgasming, now carried, by the seas convulsions, miles away from your pleasing parting tongue as the salt removes its skin.
Alone and dead with no tongue, emptied of orgasmic nourishing juice, all you can do now is finally perhaps find some sort of silence.
You remember years before that nap-time was the most profound moment of your existence.
You recede to recess but hate the commotion—only regretting your regression.
What are you now that you are like this trying to finally find silence? And what does silence mean? What difference would it make to you?
But now, even in death, your torment continues as your genitals grow bird-like wings and fly away from you—ripped away from your flesh.
And all you ever wanted to do was to find happiness. And you question if this is punishment, but you know it is not.
Now remembering that you were supposed to have lunch with someone this afternoon, instead of thinking about it you eliminate any ideas of food from anything you know.
Next, you do the same with ideas of people.
And we are once again troubled with unanswerable questions.
Notes of the Restless
Travels of matted hair—where screams—an empty black cardboard box full of dust atop a pile—unintelligible stories of peace that are never believed, needing an understanding—an epic of our sour underwear—pieces of our movements.
Sensitive skin chafed from sensual boredom—vile cruelty of inside an inner pant leg—faces ignore themselves in their inability to recognize, seeing inconsistent blurring.
Loving that we have and having all that is needed. Yet sickened. Haunting terror depressing even heightened erections. Journeys of constant ejaculations—but, beauty rides us rough, spurring into our soft stomachs, distracting us from feelings of anything that could possibly be known as normal.
What blows us further, the wind winds up winning us over; we bruise our knees giving satisfaction to sacrifice. But nothing satisfies. Parts of us brightened while others fade. The flames are fanned, burning down our home—melting grounding into rivers of inescapable fire—the flames quietly moving to our next home with a single gorgeous spark in the night that is seen to us as a star of enormous mass from our close position.
We pull out and save our own hardened veins to make straws to drink from because we think it will help our thirst, and we cut out and dry our own guts to make strings for instruments of music that might move us to where we once again glimpse our longing for lost spirit.
The Joys Of Being A Full Grown Person Once For Three Hours And The Agony Of Enduring A Lifetime
How in biting fragments of wonder’s fantastic mosaic are these tiny images so strangely rearranged?
Starring at the stars of day out overlooking southern window view, music notes around in blur; one abstract wall of colors: sound watching us with undying intent—jangling bells instead of bird songs, coming to us as we to them.
From this vantage of parts we travel without moving ourselves—coming in contact with distance—going abroad, around—and back again—finding things to be without seasons; lazily observing. And the figures become fainter and fainter to make out because.
Oh—Oh—!!! If only explanations: running into the sharp edges of cliché—then, instead further into something that touches back, caressing and sensual.
So out into the city streets we went looking—smiling because we thought the edges had sealed and in their original order.
And our heads felt empty as we chuckled in amused ironic self-pity—moving into the next part of town.
The ocean flowed through bones, rushing down out our ears onto our backs in electric ecstasy.
We grew three times our size joyfully hopping fences, admiring lawns.
Out into the open space we moved until we too were abstractions.I became a bee and she a butterfly, and we laid back in the wind and soared off without effort.
Back we were in drumming blasts.
The sea roared with its life.
Off we are with mellow green splashed across burning orange of black deep background blind where yellow embraces red.
Once a finger was put to a chin for a long time—allowing a spinning face on an odd cube of different lights. One big day a big melting ice cube and then water; fluid fish in ornamented outfits make sushi of themselves in lavish display set for two or more. Thoughts of many anxious days ahead waiting.
City Of Violent Silence
There seems something special about this life, as we sing oblivious to the song, this time, this place, as to give a grander meaning where the justification of its grandeur is impossible given the entirety of the scope of others’ experience—this unique entitlement of circumstance doesn't leave, chewing the skin off of the live body of decency.
We, they think, that are here simply to destroy—we, they say, that are here simply to live until we finish the cycle of life and death by killing everything that could perhaps be left; but just to evaporate into a mirror of origin—here on earth only to be the embodiment of a larger destruction beyond earth?
But we, in being here, are not here simply as mechanisms of self-destruction—or as optimistic daydreamers of extinction where all good intentions realize the same end, even if the end is realized. Capacity is far beyond possibility—possibi
lity, infinitely open. Even within cold but elegant cycles there seems to be a feeling of flesh not to be forgotten.
And tonight I find myself vulnerably exposed, tied to my bedposts spread endangered as a dying X. But, I am not on the bed but under it; and there is no light; and my pets are hungry and don't seem to remember that they love me.
Where To Look When Looking Where
A melted metal that cannot hold a shape—seemingly forming one way or another—but never achieving a solid formation—as relationships slip away, along with any recognition of who is the who that is who is the I am, or who is you that you is that is the you who is the who that you are—leaving only a distant trace of a past: mercurial tears—form other passion of—what was, groping for growth.
I have a cat named Cosmos. He likes to eat music. One day, he said, “Looking back to memories, letting the stress and exhaustion leave, smiling through to the love shared and to the leftover natural experiences holding close the wondered elaborations of time: all relationships are perfect.” He said this meant that there was possibility. Then, he kept eating more and more music. He said, “I want to eat all the music of the world.”
In everything that I am, in all that I do and could be, am I with empathy with, do I act honestly in relation to, all peoples and all relationships? Do I let others die in my attempts at comfort? Do my most